


Over the River

by blakefancier



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a wolf attack, and a young soldier in a red cloak went out into the forest…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the River

It started with a wolf attack in the forest; finding the pale body of a soldier, the earth soaked with blood. Thomas knew what he had to do. He strapped on his sword and pistol and put on his favorite cloak-- the color reminded him of his mother's roses-- before mounting his horse. The soldier was his man; he could not allow this to go unpunished. 

It was almost winter, his breath misted and the fog made everything dream-hazy and wet. The forest was dense even now and very little light filtered through the dying leaves. It was so quiet, even the sound of his horse's hooves against the ground was muted.

That was how he heard him; that was why his breath caught in his throat-- not quite a gasp.

"Why are you in my forest?" 

It took Thomas a moment to see the pelt covered man in the trees. He did not pull out his sword, but he did touch the hilt. "Your forest?"

"I am the huntsman here. Now answer my question." 

The man stepped closer and Thomas's horse shied. "A wolf killed one of my men. I'm here to return the favor." 

"Just you, red-cloak?" The huntsman smiled and for some reason, Thomas shivered.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Your wolf is a clever one. He won't be easy to kill."

Thomas lifted his chin, his eyes narrowing. "You sound as if you admire him, huntsman." 

"Perhaps I do. When you've lived as I have, you come to respect the killers." He took another step forward and the horse whickered nervously. "Come. You can warm yourself by my fire."

"The wolf--"

"Won't make an appearance until it's dark. Trust me; I know the wolf you seek."

"How do I know you're not a bandit who is leading me to his camp to kill me?"

The huntsman covered the distance between them in several smooth strides and it was all Thomas could do to keep his horse from bolting. The man touched Thomas's hand and their eyes met. Something dark and uneasy twisted inside of him and for some reason he was reminded of the night terrors that had plagued him as a child.

"You don't know," he said, and Thomas almost replied, but I do. But before that nonsense could leave his lips, the huntsman turned and began to walk away.

Thomas hesitated, but after a moment's decision, followed. It was reckless, he was reckless, but he did not think the man would hurt him. 

By the time they reached the huntsman's cabin, he was cold and wet. He ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging the bits of leaves that had fallen from the trees. He tied his horse to a small tree, then followed the huntsman in.

The cabin was warm and it chased the chill from him. The huntsman divested himself of his pelts and for the first time, Thomas saw the red brilliance of his hair.

The huntsman walked up to him, blue eyes blazing in the firelight, and held out his hands. "Your cloak?" 

Thomas's fingers felt nerveless as they fumbled with the ties, until finally, the huntsman pushed his hands away and did it himself. He felt vulnerable and confused as those callus fingers accidentally brushed his throat. He knew that he was missing something and at the same time gaining some forbidden knowledge.

"Are you thirsty?" the huntsman asked and Thomas shook his head. "Are you hungry?"

Thomas's breath caught in his throat and the answer came out a stuttering gasp.

"I'm so hungry." The huntsman dropped the cloak and threaded his fingers into Thomas's hair. So hungry—his mouth devoured Thomas's, swallowing his small cries, then stopping them with his tongue.

There was danger here; Thomas could feel it in the racing of his heart, in the huntsman's sharp bite. He tasted blood, and recklessly, he let his sword fall amongst the discarded clothes so that he could employ a different weapon. 

In battle he was ruthless and in this he was equally fierce.

Later, when the battle had been won several times over, they lay in bed together, listening to the crackle of the fire.

"You must not go out tonight," the huntsman said. "The wolf will kill you."

Thomas smiled. "Have you so little confidence? Did I not astound you with my skill as a swordsman?"

The huntsman looked into Thomas's eyes. "Do not do this."

Suddenly irritated, he pulled away. "I will not allow this animal to kill again."

"Then do not give it an opportunity to do so!" The huntsman laid his hand on Thomas's arm. "Let me hunt it for you."

Thomas shook his head. "The wolf killed my man. It is my responsibility to hunt it down."

The huntsman squeezed Thomas's arm and sighed. Suddenly, he looked haggard. "I will go with you. You will allow that, at least."

He was so relieved that he smiled. "I welcome it."

They left at dusk. Fog crept through the trees, following night's path thought them, making it difficult for Thomas to see; even the color of the huntsman's hair was muted. Still, Thomas did his best to keep up.

Suddenly, the huntsman stopped, curling in on himself in pain. Thomas made a move to help, but was forestalled. "No! Red-cloak, no! Draw your weapon. Do it now! You will not have a chance later."

Thomas did not understand, not until the huntsman looked up at him. His eyes were a deep amber, round with hunger, and his mouth, full of teeth too large for it, too sharp. Then he knew, his pulse tripping through his veins, and he grabbed his gun.

"Don't run," the wolf said in the huntsman's raspy voice. "I like it when they run." And then a sound emerged from it that made the hair on Thomas's body stand on end.

He fought instinct and took a slow step back. He would never forget it, never forget the sound of bones cracking and reassembling, the fast growth of hair, the familiar becoming monstrous.

What stood before him was not a wolf, but some strange hybrid. It tensed and he knew. He whispered a no, but it did not listen, perhaps it did not understand. When it leapt, he pulled the trigger of his weapon. It shrieked, an oddly human sound, the impact of the bullet halting its momentum and sending it crashing to the ground. He dropped the pistol, it would take too long to reload, and pulled his sword from the scabbard. He was ready for it, ready for the next assault. It snarled and raged, ignoring the gaping wound in its belly. 

It lunged and he moved to meet it. His sword slid into it as easily as it slid into a man. Its breath hissed out, hot against his face, then it fell. He let go of the sword; he let go and scrambled backward until he knocked against a tree. He knew that he should run, find shelter in the cabin, but it looked at him and his knees gave out. He slid down and he watched each painful breath, each jerk and twitch of its limbs.

It did not die; somehow he knew it would not die until the sun rose. He pressed his hands to his mouth to stop the screams.

The night was seemingly endless. He might not have noticed dawn, except that it was punctuated by the whimpers of the wolf as it changed.

The huntsman's eyes were glassy and when he spoke, a trickle of blood escaped his mouth. "Hurt?"

Thomas shook his head.

He smiled and breathed out a "good," then he was still. It was another hour before Thomas was able to crawl over and take out the sword. He untied his cloak and laid it over the huntsman's body.

When he stumbled from the forest several days later, the only thing he said was, "the wolf is dead, he is dead." Then he sat on the ground and cried. 

Once upon a time, there was a wolf attack, and a young soldier in a red cloak went out into the forest…


End file.
